Never Supposed to Want You

Taking Rylee

She reached up, her fingers trembling as they traced the line of his jaw. “I wanted you,” she insisted again, her voice full of a conviction he didn’t share and didn’t care about. “All of you. The rough parts, too.”

He caught her wrist, pinning it to the mattress above her head. Her other hand found the button of his jeans.

“Then have him,” he growled, as her fingers worked the button free.

He froze for a second, her cool fingers a shock against his stomach. Then, impatience—a hot, rolling wave of it—overtook him. Her fumbling was too slow, too timid. It wasn’t the desperate, clawing need that echoed inside his own skull.

“Enough,” he growled, the word bitten off and harsh.

He pushed her hands away, sat up, and stood from the bed in one fluid, powerful motion. Her wide eyes tracked him as he planted his feet on the floor, his back to her. His hands went to the waistband of his jeans.

He didn’t tease. He didn’t savor the reveal. He simply shoved the denim and his briefs down his hips in one rough, efficient movement, kicking them aside. The cool air of the suite washed over his skin, doing nothing to temper the heat blazing from within.

He turned back to face her.

A sharp, audible gasp tore from Rylee’s throat. Her playful confidence evaporated, replaced by a stare of pure, unvarnished shock. Her gaze was locked, riveted, on his erection. It stood thick and heavy against his stomach, a stark, undeniable fact of his arousal, of the pent-up force he was about to unleash.

Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths. For the first time since she’d knocked on his door, she looked genuinely scared. It was there in the slight widening of her pupils, in the way she pressed herself back into the mattress, as if seeking a few more inches of space.

The sight of that fear should have given him pause. It didn’t. It fed the dark, hungry thing that had been chained up for weeks. Violet’s untouchable elegance had been a torture. This—this tangible, visceral reaction—was a relief. It was real.

He took a step toward the bed, his shadow falling over her. “Eyes on me,” he commanded, his voice low and utterly devoid of warmth.

Her gaze flicked up from his c**k to his face, and the fear in them intensified. He saw the calculation, the sudden, dizzying realization of what she’d asked for, of who she’d asked for.

“Hunter, I…” she started, her voice a thin whisper.

"No," he leaned closer, until his breath ghosted over her lips. “There’s no backing out now, Rylee. You wanted all of me? You’ll take it.”

He saw the swallow work its way down her throat. Saw the conflict warring in her eyes—the thrill warring with the primal alarm. Then, slowly, something shifted. Her breathing deepened. A spark of that old defiance returned, but it was darker now, edged with submission. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips.

“Okay,” she breathed. Just that one word. A surrender. A consent.

It was all he needed.

He closed the final inch and captured her mouth again, but this kiss was different. It was slower, deeper, a deliberate claiming. His tongue swept in, and he tasted the champagne and the faint, metallic tang of her fear. His hands weren’t gentle. One slid into her hair again, fisting in the brunette strands, not enough to hurt, but enough to hold her exactly where he wanted her. The other traveled down her side, over the curve of her hip, and gripped the lace of her panties.

With a sharp tug, he ripped them. The sound of tearing lace was obscenely loud in the quiet room. She jolted against him, a muffled cry escaping into his mouth.

He broke the kiss, his own breathing ragged. He looked down at her, sprawled beneath him in just her torn bra, completely exposed to him. His gaze raked over her body—the full curves of her breasts, the flat plane of her stomach, the thatch of brunette curls between her thighs. This is what I couldn’t have, he thought, the ghost of dark hair and different curves flashing behind his eyes. This is what I’m taking.

He lowered his head, bypassing her mouth, and dragged his lips down the column of her throat. He didn’t stop at her collarbone. He moved lower, to the swell of her breast. He took one peaked n****e into his mouth through the lace of her bra, sucking hard, his tongue circling the stiffened bud.

“Oh, God…” she moaned, her back arching off the bed, her hands flying to his shoulders. Her nails dug into his skin, anchoring herself.

He moved to the other breast, giving it the same relentless attention, biting down just on the edge of pleasure and pain. She writhed beneath him, soft whimpers falling from her lips. He could feel the heat pouring off her, could smell the scent of her arousal, rich and musky. It was intoxicating. It was a distraction. It was working.

His mouth left her breasts, trailing a wet, hot path down her sternum, over her quivering stomach. He kissed the soft skin of her inner thigh, and she tensed, a fresh wave of apprehension tightening her muscles.

“Relax,” he muttered against her skin, the word more an order than a comfort.

He nudged her legs apart with his shoulders, settling between them. He didn’t look up at her face. He kept his gaze fixed on her, on the glistening evidence of her want. He leaned in, close enough that his breath stirred the curls, close enough to feel the radiant heat.

She made a sound, half-gasp, half-sob. “Hunter, wait…”

He paused, his body humming with tension. “Tell me no,” he said, his voice gravelly.

Silence stretched, thick and heavy. He heard her ragged breath. Felt the tremble in her thighs where they framed his head.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered finally, the words soaked in want and a thrilling terror.

A grim satisfaction settled in his chest. He lowered his head the final inch.

The first touch of his tongue was a flat, slow stroke. She cried out, her hips jerking off the bed. He held her down with a firm hand on her stomach. He did it again, learning her taste, salt and sweetness and pure, unadulterated Rylee. It was nothing like the sterile, imagined fantasy of Violet. This was messy. This was real.

He lost himself in the rhythm of it, in the sounds she made—each gasp, each moan a counterpoint to the silent screaming in his own mind. He used his mouth on her with the same focused intensity he used for everything else, relentless and thorough, until her whimpers became pleas, until her hands were fisted in his hair, not pushing him away, but holding him closer.

Her climax hit her suddenly, a violent, shuddering wave. She cried out, a raw, broken sound, her body bowing off the mattress as she pulsed against his mouth. He stayed with her through it, until the last tremor subsided and she collapsed back onto the duvet, boneless and panting.

He rose over her again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Her eyes were glazed, her lips swollen. She looked utterly wrecked. Beautifully used.

He positioned himself between her legs, the head of his c**k nudging against her slick, heated core. The contact made them both gasp. Her eyes fluttered open, meeting his. The fear was still there, but it was mixed now with a dazed, sated wonder.

He leaned down, his forehead almost touching hers. His voice was a raw scrape in the quiet. “This is what you wanted. Remember that.”